


None May See

by dawnstruck



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Hypothetical character death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:28:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That is what romance is, little man,” he whispers roughly, “To carry stories upon one’s body, stories that go beyond scars and lines of age. Even if the stories are sad and end too quickly.”</p><p>[Five times Nasir and Agron did not get their happy ending - and one time they did.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	None May See

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, this is easily the saddest thing I have ever written. I actually made myself tear up a couple of times. But I promise it had a happy ending!

i.

Tiberius is glumly sitting on the cold stone floor, knees pulled up to his chest and his back against a pillar. He’s chosen this spot deliberately, for it offers him protection from behind while still allowing him to observe most of the room.

The rebels, fugitives, traitor – whatever one might call them – are loud and boisterous, secure in their victory. He does not like them, their unfamiliar presence in this villa that has been his home for so many years. They defile breath and marble with their filth and the blood of his dominus which they have spilt.

And for all they speak of freedom and loyalty, they ignore him much as his superior Romans have, only that he is not made to stand still and devout in a corner, expected to wait on them.

But maybe this is their way of putting him down. Reminding him that, even after his known defiance, his attempt on Spartacus’ life, they do not feel threatened by him, do not feel the need to lock him away. It is humiliating, but a little doubtful part of Tiberius cannot help but wonder.

Maybe leaving him to his own devices is no punishment after all. Maybe they truly do not care if he chooses to run away. Maybe this is their way of offering him a taste of unknown freedom.

Despite his previous attentiveness he startles from his spot when suddenly a tall figure approaches from his blind spot, crouching down next to him.

“I would have your name,” the stranger says, and his voice is neither friendly nor hostile, leaving Tiberius to wonder at his purpose. The man is not as broad or large as some of the other gladiator, but he bears scars and muscles that belie his former status nevertheless.

His hair is dark and woven into short braids, and his face shows that he is younger than most of the other men, maybe barely older than Tiberius himself. Nevertheless, he has seen him in the presence of the Rebel King, speaking his mind as if talking to an equal.

He was there when Crixus demanded that Tiberius be killed for his treason, but he had not voiced his own opinion, neither in favor nor against the fate of the wayward slave. He looked conflicted instead, chewing on the side of his thumb.

Now he is sitting here, perhaps to finally make up his mind and see whether he should have agreed with Crixus after all.

“Tiberius,” he mutters reluctantly in response to the question. If he is stuck with these barbarians he might as well be cooperative. It’s what always worked best with his masters.

“I am Duro,” the man introduces himself, “A German name that tells you of my land and my people. Yet yours is Roman.”

“I’ve been living with Romans too long to be called anything else,” Tiberius replies defiantly.

“You remember nothing of your life before slavery?” Duro concludes and Tiberius hates to see a spark of pity in his eyes.

“I know only that I am of Syria, only because my dominus has mentioned it to others,” he answers, tugging his legs a little closer to himself, “And… a brother. I had a brother once.”

The spark of pity is gone then, replaced by infinite sorrow and violent anger, barely suppressed.

“My brother was taken from me as well,” Duro reveals, clenching his fists and looking away as if aware of what his light-colored eyes give away, “He was killed by the Romans before I could step up to take the blow. His name was Agron.”

The name is spoken with such love, such fondness, that Tiberius feels… not jealously, not respect, but… longing. As if a dead man were worthy of all the affection that he had never allowed himself to feel.

“Agron,” he repeats, the name foreign yet familiar upon his tongue, and he has to take a shuddering breath, though he does not know why.

“I do not remember my brother’s name,” he admits, somewhat ashamed.

“Do you remember yours?” Duro asks and Tiberius stills.

“No,” he lies after only a moment, “I’ve only ever been Tiberius.”

“But you will be a slave no longer,” Duro tells him and claps him on the shoulder, before getting up to search for drink and true companions.

Tiberius is left behind, feeling strangely desolate.

 

ii.

The boy is handsome. Pretty even. If there is one thing Romans know it’s how to surround themselves with unequaled beauty.  
His dark skin glows gold in the candlelight, the flames caught is his sable hair. He is short and slim, but well-fed and clean in comparison to some of the other slaves. It was no surprise that out of all of them he would be the one who would only see the downsides of his liberation. 

It was a surprise that he actually acted upon his objection to the turn of events. Were body slaves not supposed to be meek and subservient? 

Every man has his worth, Spartacus had said. Yet that was before one of those he had deemed worthy tried to liberate him of his life.

And Agron should hate this cowardly little creature who had attacked while Spartacus had his back to him, unarmed and inattentive. It was much like Duro had been killed when the fucking Roman had been upon them out of the blue. 

Agron can feel his anger rise at the thought of losing another he held dear to such unfairness and he has to take a deep, steadying breath to keep his calm, reminding himself that, for now, all it well.

The boy is detained, even if he does keep struggling against the men holding him in place, as if he still thought there was a chance he might win, might get out of this unscathed.

“You yet wish to train this fuck?” Crixus growls, but Spartacus appears unmoved.

Agron is surprised they were even called in to give advice. If he had been in their leader’s place he would have struck down the boy on the spot.

“He deserves opportunity,” Spartacus reiterates instead and Agron barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the old spiel.

“He was given such a thing,” Crixus keeps wandering up and down like a caged animal, “And made attempt on your life in response.”

“Gods save me,” Agron tilts his head back towards the heavens as if in direct conversation with whatever deity deigned to hear him, “I find myself in agreement with the Gaul.”

“He’s known nothing but slavery,” Spartacus reminds them, “The strength of such a tether is not easily severed.

“Perhaps never to be so,” Crixus points out. For it was easy to fight for freedom when you still remembered its sweetness, but this villa had been the boy’s world and now he found it invaded and near destroyed. In regard to the rebels’ intentions, he stood a Roman.

“And if we take his life?” Spartacus demands to know, “What message will that send to those who wish to join our cause?”

“That they best be agreeable?” Agron cannot help but quip. From what he has seen in the time of his captivity, punishment is always the best means to keep people in line. But it is as if Spartacus reads his thoughts.

“We’re Romans then?” he asks them, almost flippantly, “Commanding through fear and threat of death?”

Agron does not bother to answer, knowing it would fall on deaf ears. He had always thought of himself as stubborn, but then he had met Spartacus. That man was as an ass when he had set his mind and Agron had to wonder why they were even called in to offer their opinion on this when he obviously had already decided.

That should be it then and Agron thinks of returning to the place he has chosen as his bed for the night, but Crixus is still fueled by ire.

“If he makes attempt again, I will make sure he joins his fucking dominus,” he growls and punches the boy in the face.

And even then he is pretty, hair coming undone and mouth bloodied. There is such rage is him that Agron might think him a feral dog.

He might make a formidable warrior, Agron thinks. Perhaps Spartacus is on to something after all.

But then the boy makes a mistake. Hissing like a rattlesnake, he purses his lips and then spits into Crixus’ face.

Blood and saliva drip from Crixus’ cheek, the last defiance of a desperate man, and there is some glory to it, but mostly stupidity.

Crixus deals out another punch. They boy only spits again.

“Do not expect mercy from me, you little cunt!” Crixus tells him, wiping the blood off himself once more and there is an angry vein throbbing on his forehead.

“Kill me then!” the boy sounds almost delirious, “Kill me and live with the knowledge that the road of your noble cause is littered by corpses left and right!”

Once more Crixus’ fist connects with the boy’s face and there is a crack. Not so pretty now, Agron thinks, knowing enough of broken bones to see the boy’s beauty flit away.

Crixus has the slave by the throat now, his vice grip tighter than the collar they had removed not hours past. The guards in turn have let go of the boy, leaving Crixus more room for his anger.

A fourth hit and Spartacus is getting up.

“Crixus,” he warns simply and his second in command stills, glancing over his shoulder.

It is what the boy must have been waiting for. His arms unrestrained, he makes a grasp for Crixus’ sword, succeeding to pull it from his belt.

But Crixus is the Undefeated and spots the movement from the corner of his eye. In a split second he grabs the boy’s wrists, twisting until the sword clatters to the ground, twisting until there are more bones breaking and the boy finally lets out a hoarse cry of pain.

Then there a dagger in Crixus’ hand and he draws the sharp edge across the boy’s graceful throat. 

Blood gushes out of the wound and over Crixus’ hands, the boy gurgles, his eyes wide and fearful and still so fucking defiant, and Agron’s breath hitches.

A second later Crixus lets go and the lifeless body fall to the ground, lying in a puddle of hot blood.

“He joins his fucking dominus,” Crixus echoes his previous threat and to that not even Spartacus can object.

So strange, Agron thinks, how quickly the odds may change. Had the boy stayed silent only a moment longer, had he let Crixus leave and spat in Agron’s face instead, he might still be alive.

He steps closer and looks down at the glassy eyes, the swollen face, the twisted arm, and feels inexplicably sad.

"What was his name?” he asks when he feels Spartacus at his side.

“I do not know,” their leader says with regret.

“Who fucking cares?” Crixus barks, bending to pick his fallen sword from the floor, not sparing a glance at the corpse he had put there, “Or are you planning to mourn his worthless life?”

Every man has his worth, Spartacus had said, and Agron cannot help but wonder which this boy’s worth would have been if only he had lived.

 

iii.

A nervous buzzing has Agron moving through the woods at a fast pace, though his calves are burning and the other men are lagging behind him.

I should have gone with them, the buzzing is telling him, an evil voice repeating the words in his head over and over again.  
I am a coward and a traitor.

Had it been Duro in Neavia’s place, as Spartacus had postulated, Agron would have gone to save him, but he would not have asked anyone to accompany him on such a futile mission. He now knew that spoke nothing of his bravery and compassion, but of his own recklessness.

Men less loyal and experienced had followed Spartacus and Crixus to the mines. Mira had not for one moment doubted the worthiness of the task. Nasir who had tried to kill the man he now called leader had willingly offered his service and knowledge for the greater good.

And Agron had fucked off.

He did not tell the men following him of his doubts. It was too late to go to the mines now, too late to do anything but make for Vesuvius where they hoped to meet whatever remained of Spartacus’ party.

Many would have died, Agron knew. The mines were a labyrinth and heavily guarded. If they had even managed to find Neavia at all they would have paid for her life with several of their own.

He had not offered up his own coin for this risky gamble, but now he finds that he has lost anyway.

Dusk is setting and the trees in front of him seem to be inching closer together with each passing moment, the light barely penetrating the foliage, and he is growing weary with only the sounds of footsteps and his own breath in his ears. And the nagging voice, still reminding him of his failure.

After was seems like hours, but cannot have been nearly that long, the woods grow sparser again. And there, between the trees, are the silhouettes of what cannot be Romans.

Agron steps into the last light of day, facing towards Vesuvius in the far distance, but his eyes come to rest on Spartacus and Mira, standing shoulder to shoulder, weapons drawn and skin filthy.

They must be scouting, Agron thinks, half-stumbling down the small slope, his eye big in wonderment as he walks closer and lies a hand on Spartacus’ shoulder.

The looks on his friends’ faces are wild, relief just barely washing away the ugly grimaces of fear, and then Agron realizes that no, they are not scouting.

Because there is Neavia, with Crixus not in sight though he would never leave her now if he had the choice, and she is shielding another person, a man, but short to be covered by her so easily.

This is what is left of their mission, Agron realizes. This is what they have left after saving the life of one woman.

And he stumbles closer to Neavia whose dark eyes widen before she scrambles aside, though she still holds her sword raised high.

It is Nasir, Agron can see now what he already knew before. Nasir pale and wounded, but still alive to have made it out this far. Making for Vesuvius when so many were lost along the way.

Agron falls to his knees then, his legs numb and hollow and heavy all at the same time, and he lifts his hand to lay trembling fingers upon an ashen cheek.

He wants to say something, but no words come to mind. Instead a smile lights up his face as Nasir’s eyelids flutter open. His gaze is unfocused, but he mirrors Agron’s smile with one of his own.

The smell of filth and blood and burnt flesh clings to Nasir’s skin, stinging Agron’s nose as he leans in close and presses his forehead against Nasir’s clammy one.

He barely refrains from recoiling when he catches the stench of death as well.

No gladiator such as him survives the arena without having that smell forever ingrained in his mind, to poison meals and dark nights.

Nasir is close to dying and even if they made for Vesuvius right now he would not survive the travel.

“The gods answer my prayers,” Nasir says, his voice a mere breath, and Agron wants to yell and rage and tell him that the gods are fucking mercurial cunts to give him this boy and then take him again, after they have already taken his brother as well.

“I wished to see your face once more,” Nasir admits, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“And you shall see it every day for as long as you wish, until you grow sick of it and curse me to hell,” Agron promises. The words are said with a smile, but they choke him and barely make it past his lips.

“I should never grow tired of your gaze meeting mine,” Nasir muses, “Or of your hands on my body.”

Agron puts both his hands on Nasir’s face then, palms cradling his cheek, and then he gently presses his mouth to those pallid lips.

It is the gentlest kiss a man ever bestowed upon another person and yet it is all wrong, for Nasir does not even have the strength to respond to it, cannot lean into it, cannot part his lips and slid his tongue into Agron’s mouth.

It was not supposed to happen like this. Agron had wanted to find him unharmed at the foot of Vesuvius, and Nasir would have been cross at him for abandoning then at the mines, but Agron would have done his best, would have wooed him and asked for forgiveness and then they could have had something that was more than just shy glances and appreciates gazes along half-naked bodies.

But why would he even hope for such when Spartacus had lost Sura and Crixus had given his life in return for Neavia’s? It was a cruel world and a cruel world it would remain.

“I thank you,” Nasir whispers, his words becoming slurred, “for making me a free man. For giving me a chance… to prove myself.”

“There was nothing to prove,” Agron reassures him, “You are brave and fierce and thus you will always be.”

They both know it is a lie, but Nasir does not seem to mind.

“Kiss me…. once more,” he begs instead and Agron obliges, capturing those lips with his again. 

There is an exhale, a breath into his mouth, and when Agron pulls back, Nasir’s eyes are closed and his heart still. 

No scream, no curse flies from Agron’s lips then, not wanting to release Nasir’s last breath into the world in such a careless manner.

Instead he breathes in deep, filling his lungs with that gentle soul, and lowering his head in prayer for it to finally rest in peace.

 

iv. 

There are so many faces of those returning, some familiar, some not, but not the one he searches for, not the one he has outlined so often with lips and fingers and loving gazes.

“Where-“ he asks Spartacus, his voice breaking, unable to finish the sentence, “Have you-“

But the look in Spartacus’ eyes is resigned, the weight on his shoulders heavy, and behind him there are men carrying a makeshift stretcher, a motionless body lying on top of it, face covered by a cloth.

“I am sorry, Nasir,” Spartacus says as the men set the stretcher down and Nasir is shaking, trembling, as his knees give out under him and he falls to the ground.

Weakened arms reach out to grasp the linen, already knowing what they will uncover, but unable to keep themselves from the pain.

Agron’s face is swollen with bruises, his lips chapped and bloodied, his skin sunburnt.

He stinks of piss and sweat and there is nothing glorious about this death, no songs to be sung about his heroic passing. He is dead and there is nothing more to it.

“How-?” Nasir tries to asks, his eyes frantically searching out the wounds, finding the deep cut along his ribs, much like the one Nasir sustained so many months ago. If Nasir had survived such an injury, why was Agron not alive as well.

Spartacus does not respond to his aborted question and Nasir whips his head around to glare at him.

“How did he die?!” he hisses, the sound of a animal, cornered and dying.

It still takes Spartacus another moment to reply, either to shield Nasir from the knowledge or because it grieves him as well. Nasir does not care. Whatever pain Spartacus believes to feel, it is nothing in comparison to what is tearing his own insides apart, struggling to break free.

“The Romans…”Spartacus begins haltingly, “They crucified him. Left him to burn in the sun without water or care. When we arrived to free him, he was already…”

And Nasir’s breath is coming in hiccups now, forcing its way from his lips in shallow bouts, and he is shaking so much he can barely grasp a hold of Agron’s wrists, uncurling the stiff fingers, covered in dried blood and sand.

There is a hole, right through the center of Agron’s palm, exposing flesh and bone and sinews, and it is wrong, so wrong. For Nasir knows these hands, knows their callouses and tiny scars, the lines and veins that run along it, knows the feel of them in his hair, around his cock. Knows their weight on his shoulders or on his chest when he wakes in the morning, knows how they feel clasped around his hips or covering his mouth to silence his moans or his laughter at Agron’s expense.

They are his hands no longer. Never again will they touch him in affection or grasp a sword or wave around to underline a point being made.

They are skeletons now, dead and destroyed, and Nasir thought knowing his lover’s fate would give him peace of mind, but he has erred.

Knowing how Agron must have suffered for hours and hourse, displayed once more in his pain for Roman amusement, the one thing he hated the most – all that is so much worse.

He deserved a quick death, a dignified death, like Crixus. 

“I should have gone with him,” he laments, clutching the ruined hand to his chest, as if his own heartbeat could start up Agron’s pulse again, “I should have been there.”

“You would have died in battle, or been executed yourself had they realized how much you meant to him,” Spartacus says, his words kind and cruel at the same time, “Or they would have made a mockery of you, and send you back with his head, like they forced Neavia.”

An anguished cry escapes Nasir at that thought, the image stuck in his mind.

Would he have rather witnessed his lover’s death if it meant he had been with him for a few days longer?

“Then he should have stayed with me.” he is rocking back and forth now, small stones digging into his knees, but the ache barely registers in comparison to the rest.

“It was his choice,” Spartacus reminds him, “And part of that choice was for you to live.”

“What is there to live for now?” Nasir hisses, “Do I leave the rebellion and run as a coward? Do I march with you towards future battles, only to die there? And should I survive, where do I go? I have no home, no family. Agron was all that. And now he is gone, too.”

To that even Spartacus has no assurance, no apologies. 

So Nasir kneels, amidst friends returning to friends, husbands to wives, sons to mothers. There is laughter and there are tears, but there is nothing left inside of Nasir.

Agron’s skin is warmed from the sun, a gruesome imitation of life, but his flesh feels all wrong, too heavy and unwieldy.

Nasir lifts that large hand once more, lowering his head to press his lips to the palm, the wound in its middle. The tang of blood fills his mouth, not yet completely congealed.

It is the closest he will ever again get to kissing a living part of his beloved. 

 

v.  
The bloodlust should be upon Agron, but it is not.

He fights, of course, and there is a madness to it. There always it to killing. But he does not lose himself to it, does not submerge his mind in a deep red craze as he whirls and dances across the battlefield, never stopping to catch his breath.

Instead he always keeps a lookout for Nasir who is fighting somewhere close, taking down one Roman after the other.

It is a difficult way to fight in a battle such as this, and a careless one. If Agron is more concerned with looking over his shoulder then the Romans will have an easier time of sneaking up on him. His own safety, however, has always come second.

Nasir is not unaware of this.

“Face fucking enemy!” he yells, ramming his shield into a Roman’s face. The man goes down immediately, and Nasir has time to slash another’s throat before turning back and bestowing the same treatment to the one already on the ground.

“I enjoy the sight of your arse moving about!” Agron replies, a cocky laugh in his voice.

“And I would enjoy if you lived long enough to fill it tonight!” Nasir yells back, slowly moving closer to where Agron is holding his ground.

“Killing always gets me in the mood for fucking,” Agron reminds him, “And we shall have much cause for celebration later on.”

Two Roman are upon him then and he has to concentrate to keep them at bay. His hands are paining him still and fighting with the sword and shield bastard Nasir has gifted him is effective, but awkward.

His shoulder jars more easily, already bruised from hanging from the cross for so long, and he fears a direct hit might dislocate the joint quite easily. 

“When we have won,” he boasts to Nasir, evading an attack and striking back in the same move, “I will take you East of the Rhine. I will show you my homelands and teach you my language. I will show you a life apart from rebellion and servitude. And the only blood we spill shall be that of fat pigs and plum pigeons.”

“Or we return to Syria,” Nasir proposes, “And together we discover the endless stretches of sand and sky.”

“I will follow wherever you go,” Agron promises, “Just don’t take me to the fucking Gauls.”

“It had not come to mind,” Nasir admits teasingly, “Yet now that you turn thought to it-“

“Do not fucking dare,” Agron laughs and gets a Roman right through the heart. It is in that moment, however, that another Roman gets ‘his’ heart.

There is no cry of pain from Nasir, just a mere exhale of breath, followed by a stifled groan. When Agron turns, the Roman responsible is already relieved of his head and gushing blood everywhere. That is not the only source of blood, for Nasir as a shallow gash running down along the expanse of his back, inches away and parallel to his spine.

Nasir has gone down on one knee, supporting himself on his spear. Like this he is an easy target and quickly many Romans storm towards him where they had previously evaded the obviously skilled warrior.

The bloodlust that had been absent from Agron’s senses until now suddenly takes over his very being. He is vaguely away of himself hacking and slashing at the soldiers surrounding him, severing limbs and piercing throats, but the details escape him.

Romans all look the fucking same anyway, but now he might as well be slaughtering his own comrades if they were to get too close to him. He is dimly aware of a searing pain to his thigh, assuming that someone must cut him, but he does not waste time to glance down and assess the damage.

Doing himself is much more important and he roars at them and laughs as the fall beneath his blades. A thud and there is a dagger to his shoulder and then one of the fucking dishonorable bastard has thrown a stone at him from where he is lying on the ground with a mangled leg.

But he slays them, slays them all, for they dared to try and slice his heart open, and there is something he should remember, something dear, something more important than the death of an entire legion at his hands.

There is movement at his back, another coward to attack him from behind, so he whirls around and instead of a Roman mug he is looking upon a head of dark silk, on narrow shoulders and a familiar back.

He used to kiss that back in those rare lazy morning hours, used to let his lips wander down along the well-known path between shoulder blades and over vertebrae and down to the dimples above a rounded ass. He spread oil between his palms and dug fingers into kinks and aches and a willing body, drew letters and animals upon that dark skin to make his lover laugh and guess and complain about his lack of artistic skills.

That back that now has a long, open wound on it, severe but not deadly, the wound that ignited his inferno after such a long time without. The wound that is now accompanied by a sword shoved through the gut and emerging on the other side again.

The Roman wrests his weapon free again and Nasir lets out a strangled cry. His own sword falls from his grasp and he presses his hands to the gushing wound.

The Roman loses arm and his life only a second later, but there are more, many more, crowding in from all sides, and Agron is barely fighting anymore, absent-mindedly slashing at them, while all of his attention is centered on Nasir.

“Nasir,” Agron breathes, the name a prayer on his lips, a salvation from bloodrush, though now he is exchanging on daze for the other. Where one everything was covered in red there is now a thick mist surrounding him, leaving only a path to get to Nasir and fall to his knees in front of him.

“We have to leave the battlefield,” he is saying, his own words sounding as if through a thick cloth, “We will get you help.”

The weapons tied to his arms keep him from touching Nasir, from putting pressure to his wound, from carrying him to safety. He starts tearing at the straps, ridding himself of the hindrances, not sparing a thought of why he carried them in them in the first place.

There is a small smile on Nasir’s lips, as though he does not mind the wound. And it is too much like Duro, too much like his brother sacrificing himself to save his life, dying in Agron’s arms to leave him alone and unsettled.

But Agron had settled down with Nasir, had found a home in him and a purpose apart from killing or being killed. Now, that purpose is fleeing from between his fingers like grains of sand.

Suddenly Nasir’s eyes widen and his gaze sweeps up.

“Watch out!” he warns, his voice cutting off as he starts to cough and hack up blood.

Agron barely dodges the attack from behind, but he is not quick enough to take up his sword again and when he does his grasp is too lose and unsure, hands nowhere near healed. He kicks at the Romans’ legs and he goes down like a fallen tree so Agron sets to sawing at his neck. 

There are others, though, so many others, like Heracles fighting Hydra, cutting off one head, only to have it replaced by two others.

Suddenly pain pierces through his leg along with a thrown spear and he goes down himself, barely catching himself on his ruined hands which only jars him even more. A sandaled foot grinds down on his fingers then and he glances up to see a Roman shit smirk down at him.

Agron rips the dagger that is still embedded in his shoulder from his flesh and stabs it where he suspected the bastard’s meager cock. The man stumbles away with a piercing scream, tripping and landing on his back, so Agron keeps stabbing at his crotch until his opponent is motionless in shock.

When he turns back towards Nasir, there is only another enemy, this one already wounded as well. Maybe he is one of those Agron had taken down before but not finished off. He had seen no threat in them, and indeed the man is dragging himself across the ground, crawling, quivering, then pulling himself up to his knees. He is a pitiful sight, but he has a sword, while Agron only has a dagger and a hand that does not serve well.

The blade to his stomach is expected and almost welcomed. He cannot walk and certainly cannot carry another’s weight through the fray. He was never meant to save Nasir.

He chokes and bites the insides of his cheek to keep from screaming, instead pulling the son of a whore closer by his sword arm and then jabbing the dagger into the soft patch of skin beneath his chin. The man dies with a gasp and without the satisfaction of seeing Agron breathe his last.

Only then can Agron finally make his way back to Nasir. There are only a few meters separating them, but they feel like miles, when there are wounds scattered across your body and corpses littering your path.

He drags himself on his forearms, grappling at Roman hair and armor to pull himself a few inches forward, gaze fixed ahead in determination.

For Nasir yet lives, hands still pressed to his wound, and his face is pale, near as pale as when Agron almost lost him after he mines, but his eyes return Agron’s gaze.

They will die here, Agron knows now, accepts now, but they will not die apart from each other. That had been his greatest regret when they had nailed him to the cross, the knowledge that even if he might not have had a long life by Nasir’s side, he threw away the chance of at least spending his last few minutes there. 

That was what he would do now. In one way or the other they would be reunited.

“Nasir,” he breathes again, just as he had minutes ago, though it feels as though ages have passed. Surely, the Roman Empire must have fallen by now?

The Empire does not matter, however. Neither does the rebellion or revenge or freedom.  
Only Nasir.

“My love,” Nasir replies and still there is a smile, “They gods return you to my arms.”

“And I will never again leave them,” Agron promises and for once he knows that he will stay true to his words.

“Our wounds match,” Nasir observes, his eyes sliding down to the whole in Agron’s middle before flickering to his own.

“Just one more thing that makes us alike,” Agron huffs and finally he is there. His strength leaves him and he only manages to roll onto his back before breaking down.

“I would feel your embrace once more,” Nasir tells him and a moment later he carefully lets himself slump down on Agron’s body. It hurts them both, but physical pain is so far away now that it doesn’t even warrant a groan.

Agron simply lifts his arms, weak and useless as they may be, and closes them around the smaller man, pressing his heart back into his chest.

“This is what I have defied Rome for,” he says and never a greater truth has left his lips.

Vaguely he can feel Nasir’s blood flow from his wound into his own. One more way for them to become as one. Nasir shifts a little until his head is resting on Agron’s shoulder.

“I do not know whether the gods are cruel or merciful,” he wonders, the words a mere exhale against the skin of Agron’s neck, “To have given me so much and taken it away again.”

“Fuck the gods,” Agron replies, though he is beyond anger now, “Fuck the Romans and fuck Spartacus.”

“You used to only fuck me,” Nasir jests, “Would you turn towards infidelity in our last moments?”

“I have fucked many in my life,” Agron tells him, “But I have loved only one.”

“As have I,” Nasir murmurs and they are close now, closer than they ever have been, to death and to each other, so Agron turns his head, the motion awkward and straining, but he does not give a damn.

His lips find Nasir’s and they share a final kiss, a final breath, their lips touching and their lungs slowly inhaling and exhaling.

Agron thinks he feels the moment Nasir’s heart ceased beating, but then his own has already stopped as well. His eyes fall shut and all is past.

 

\+ i.  
“That plant there,” Agron warns as he points towards the deadly nightshade growing at the side of the road, “it’s poisonous. Do not eat it.”

“I am well aware of that,” Nasir huffs out an amused laugh, “For if I was not familiar with belladonna before, I will now be after you have pointed it out to be seven times already.”

“It never hurts to be careful,” Agron grumbles, but that only makes Nasir laugh even louder.

“Those words from your mouth,” he teases, “What of the fearless gladiator that throws himself into battle at every chance he get, not a care for any danger in the world.”

“He has grown up and had some sense knocked into him,” Agron replies, “He is a gladiator no longer, not a warrior or a rebel. He is to become a farmer and a doting spouse. He is mindful of all dangers for he has not traded war for peace only to risk it through careless behavior.”

Nasir is silent then, reminiscing at the countless threats they have evaded and survived time and time again. Each could have been the end as it was for so many of their comrades.

“Do you ever think how blessed we are to still be alive?” he marvels then, slightly faltering in his steps, but Agron only nods solemnly, “Every minute I take breath.”

“We narrowly escaped death so many time,” Nasir recalls, “Even before we met. You could have fallen in the arena without me ever setting eyes on you.”

“But then you would not have known of the loss,” Agron remind him, yet Nasir shakes his head vehemently.

“I would have felt it as keenly as if you had died in my very arms,” he claims and knows it to be true, “Even if our paths were never to cross, if they met for some time and then part or cut off, our souls were forever meant to intertwine.”

“Then we shall not try to wrest them apart,” Agron concludes before pulling Nasir against his chest and whispering in his ear, “What do you say we disappear into the underbrush and acquaint our souls more… intimately?”

“You are incorrigible,” Nasir pushes at him and his pout is ruined by the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips, “I was speaking of romance.”

“Romance!” Agron barks out a laughs, swinging his arm around Nasir’s shoulder and resuming their path, following their group of fellow survivors and fugitives, “I shall tell you of romance.”

He pauses then and Nasir glances up at him, expecting a joke. But Agron’s expression has gone thoughtful as if contemplating his next words carefully.  
“Bards and poets sing of romance often,”Agron tells him, “Boys speak of it when they want to bed a girl and girls wish for it before they know that a roof over your head and food in your belly are more important to keep happiness in a marriage.”

Nasir finds himself agreeing with that, though he cannot judge for himself. He only ever knew slavery. With the permission of their dominus slaves were allowed to marry, yet Nasir had known that with age came lack of beauty and his dominus might rid of him. There was always the chance that he might just be sold off to another and having a wife would be a hindrance. And he would not allow any children of his to be born into slavery. Not to mention that his interest in women was about as great as in women in general. 

He had thought of love sometimes, in an abstract manner. Had dreamed that a handsome man would buy him off his dominus for a truly dazzling sum and treat his as a prince. Had wished for another slave to fall for him one day so they could share secret affections. When he had been very young and naïve still he had even imagined that possibly dominus would love him if only Tiberius were perfect in every manner.

Dominus had enjoyed such perfection, but it had not moved him towards love. No, love had only ever been a possibility when Agron stormed into his life during one dark and bloody night.

“Romance is rarely pretty words and prettier flowers,” Agron tells him then and his tone is not as joking as he might think it, “Romance is gritty and dark and smells of piss more often than not. Romance is not a little bird coming to sit in your palms, but a feral dog that bites your hand and does not let go.”

He sparse a wry grin at Nasir then who has not missed the jab, but then Agron is back to explaining.

“Yet you keep feeding that dog, aware of the pain you might endure, yet those tiny moments in which your dog nuzzles at you and licks your fingers… they make it all worth it. And you are not without fault either. Sometimes you kick your dog and yell at it, you chase it away or tie it to a tree and leave it behind. But somehow… somehow you and that mangy, flee-ridden dog find their way back to each other. You cannot truly tame it and it will never serve you, but it will be by your side and steal your meat and keep you warm during cold nights.”

Agron’s hand on his shoulder tightens then, yet he keeps staring straight ahead.

“You think one day your dog will tire of you and run away. You think it will grow old and die or be torn apart by wolves. And you are so scared of it, so mind-numbingly scared. You think surely it would be best to just live without your dog, before you grow too attached to it, before it no longer knows how to hunt and feed without you. But then… then you realize that it was never your decision in the first place.”

Agron falls silent then and Nasir starts to think that he had finished talking, but then he speaks up again.

“No matter how it comes to an end, you will always wish to have spent more time with that one being that completes you. There may be regrets and lost moments, but… even if there is only a handful of memories, even in there is only one… they will have touched you and shaped you and their fingerprints and bite marks, their glares and adoring gazes will forever leave a monument upon you.”

And finally he turns back to Nasir, the look in his eyes burning yet tender.

“That is what romance is, little man,” he whispers roughly, “To carry stories upon one’s body, stories that go beyond scars and lines of age. Even if the stories are sad and end too quickly.”

Nasir swallows then, lifting a hand to trail a finger across Agron’s Cupid’s bow and the lips beneath.

“Our story is not yet at an end,” Nasir says, strangely calm and certain, “And I vow to keep writing upon your skin, with hand and tongue and affection. And none may see but me and you.”

“No one will sing songs about us,” Agron reminds him, “No one will even remember our names.”

“I will remember your name,” Nasir says and then he is leaning up, speaking against Agron’s mouth, “As you made me remember mine.”

Agron’s embrace around him is tight and Nasir feels secure in the knowledge that his beloved will yet make good of the promise he once made. He would slay all that attempted to wrest him from his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> These were siupposed to be only very short impressions of each 'what if' scenario, but then it got out of hand? I have no idea how it happened, but I was relishing the glorious angst. Hope I made up for it with the ending.   
> Let me know if you cried! :P


End file.
